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Two Voices 




Two Voices 


BY 

HENRY HARLAND 

•* 

(SIDNEY LUSKA) 

AUTHOR OF “GRANDISON MATHER,” “MRS. PEIXADA,” “ 
YOKE OF THE THORAH,” “A LATIN-QUARTER COURT- 
SHIP,” “AS IT WAS WRITTEN,” ETC., ETC. 



CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited 

104—106 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


-rz3 


Copyright 

1890 

By O. M. DUNHAM 


All rights reserved 


PRESS OF W. L. MERSHON * CO., 
RAHWAY, N, J. 


Two Voices 


Dies Ircz> ..... 7 

De ProfundiSy . , . . 69 



v 






Dies I rce 



Dies Ira. 


I HAVE been convicted of the murder of 
Theodore Knight. On next Monday morning 
I am to receive my sentence from the lips of 
the Judge who presided at my trial. The bur- 
den of that sentence will be “ confinement at 
hard labor in the State Prison for the term of 
my natural life.” And though I am innocent 
of the crime they have convicted me of, I believe 
I shall be able to support my punishment with 
some degree of indifference. I have suffered 
so much during the past year that my capacity 
for suffering seems to have become exhausted. 
But there is one thing that still has power to 
9 


10 


Two Voices. 


cause me pain, one thing that I cannot bear 
with any sort of equanimity, one thing the 
mere thought of which puts me nearly beside 
myself with despair, — and that is that you 
should deem me guilty. 

The true story of the death of Theodore 
Knight I told upon the witness stand at my 
trial; but it was in itself so improbable a story, 
and I told it with so little detail, so little 
verisimilitude, that I suppose nobody who 
heard it placed the least credence in it. I was 
laboring under great excitement and nervous- 
ness, my mind was weary and confused, my 
heart was filled with wretchedness ; and so by 
my testimony I succeeded only in making an 
unlikely story seem more unlikely still. 

I am alone now, and in quiet ; and I believe 
that if I bend my whole mind, to it, I shall be 
able to tell that story over again here with such 


Dies Irce. 


II 


fulness and exactness, that you cannot doubt 
it, provided only that you will do me the jus- 
tice of reading it through. I cannot bear to 
have you think me guilty. I can bear anything 
but that. To have you despise me as utterly 
base and ignoble ; to have you think me guilty 
of the crime by which your happiness was de- 
stroyed — I cannot. bear that. I implore you to 
read what I shall write, to the end. 

As you know, and as was established by the 
prosecution at my trial, Knight and I were old 
and intimate friends. Our friendship had 
begun when we were freshmen at Harvard 
College, and it continued for five years after our 
graduation. We came from Cambridge to New 
York together, and here took rooms together. 
We had no secrets from each other, and Knight 
knew how deeply I was in love with you. He 
was the first man to be told of our engagement, 


12 


Two Voices. 


and the first also to be told when that engage- 
ment was broken off. From that meeting with 
you at which you confessed to me that your 
heart was changed, that your love for me was 
dead, that you knew you never could love me 
any more, I went home half-crazed with pain, 
and poured all my sorrow out to Knight. He 
was my confidant. He knew the whole story 
perfectly from the beginning to the end. 

After that I went abroad, and remained there 
for three years. Then I came home. Not that 
I had got over it, but I was sick of Europe. I 
had found that absence and distance from you 
did not help me. I craved a sight of you ; I 
longed to feel that we were near each other, 
that I was in the same city with you ; and so I 
came home. 

Knight and I had not kept up a regular 
correspondence while I was away. I had no 


Dies Ir<z. 


n 


heart for writing letters, and Knight, as I knew 
very well, had always regarded letter writing as 
the most irksome and disagreeable of tasks. 
But shortly before I sailed from Havre I sent 
him a little note, warning him of my coming ; 
and so I was not surprised to find him waiting 
upon the dock to greet me at my arrival. I 
was not surprised, but I was greatly pleased. 
We had not seen each other for three years, 
and no two friends were ever closer or fonder 
than he and I. Our meeting was of the most 
cordial nature. 

By and by he asked me this question : “ And 
the wound, old fellow, the wound that drove 
you abroad, — it is quite healed by this time, I 
suppose? ” 

Then I told him no ; that the wound was 
open still. He was silent fora little after this. 
Then all at once he said : “ I must tell you some- 


H 


Two Voices. 


thing before we go any further, Norbert. It will 
pain you, but it would be wrong for me to let 
things go any further without telling it to you.” 

He paused, and I said : “ Oh, I suppose she’s 
married. I have made up my mind to that.” 

“ No, she isn’t married yet,” he answered ; 
“ but she is engaged.” 

“ Well, it makes no difference to me,” I said ; 
“ I have understood all along that I must ex- 
pect to hear of her engagement or marriage 
sooner or later.” 

For some minutes now Knight did not speak, 
nor did I. At last ; “ You do not ask who it is 
that she is engaged to,” he said. 

“ I don’t care,” said I. 

“ But you must care. That is what I must 
tell you,” he insisted. 

“ Well, if you must tell me, tell me,” I re- 
turned. 


Dies Irce. 


15 

“ She is engaged to me,” he said, in a very- 
low voice. 

What happened then was proved by the 
prosecution at my trial. We had a most vio- 
lent quarrel. I was wild with pain and aston- 
ishment, and I said things that were savage and 
unjust. He retorted hotly. The result was 
that we separated in anger. It was my fault 
entirely. He had done nothing that I could 
rightly blame him for, — nothing dishonorable 
or unfair. So our long-standing friendship 
came to an end. 

It was further proved at my trial that we did 
not meet again until the night of the 6th 
of May — the night, that is, of his death. On 
the next day, the 7th of May, you and he were 
to be married. It was proved that two or three 
days earlier I had written him a note saying 
that I felt that I had been in the wrong in our 


i6 


Two Voices . 


quarrel, and that if he was willing, I should like 
to see him once before his wedding, and shake 
hands with him. I said in my note that I 
knew, of course, we never could be friends 
again in the old way, but that for the sake of 
our former friendship I should like to meet 
him once more, and take back the bitter words 
that I had spoken at our separation. That 
note was put in evidence as an exhibit at 
my trial. And the note that Knight sent 
in reply was put in evidence as an exhibit 
also. Knight replied by requesting me to 
call upon him at his house on the even- 
ing of May 6, at ten o’clock. He had 
bought a house in West Forty-first Street, 
— No. 13. 

As I have said, I told the true story of my 
visit with Knight on that evening, when I was 
a witness in my own behalf at my trial. Now 


Dies Irce . 


1 7 

I will try to tell it again, with greater precision 
and detail. 

I rang the door bell of his house at exactly 
ten o’clock. The door was opened to me by 
Knight himself, who without speaking gave me 
his hand, and led me into the hall. Then, after 
the street door was closed behind us, he said : 
“ Harry, I am very glad that you have come. 
I thank you for offering to come.” 

“ I could not help it, Theodore,” said I. “ I 
knew I had been quite wrong in our quarrel. 
I had no right to begrudge you your better 
luck. I could not feel easy in my conscience 
about it. I thought it would be good for both 
of us if before you married her we should 
meet, and I should withdraw the things I said 
that day.” 

“ It is very generous of you,” he answered. 
“ My happiness would have been gravely 


i8 


Two Voices. 


alloyed if to-morrow had come and gone, and 
you had remained my enemy.” 

After that neither of us spoke for sometime. 
Finally he said : “ Come upstairs with me, to 
my den.” 

1 followed him upstairs to the back room on 
the top floor. He had fitted it up in the most 
luxurious manner as a library and study. There 
he bade me be seated, and, producing a bottle 
of wine and glasses, he said that we must “ drink 
a cup of kindness for the sake of auld lang 
syne.” We drank together, and then he sat 
down opposite me, and for a while we were 
silent. 

“ Well, Theodore,” I began at last, “if there 
ever was a mortal whom another might reason- 
ably envy, you’re the man.” 

That was the thought which filled my mind, 
the feeling which filled my heart, how enviable 


Dies Irce. 


19 


he was, and how I envied him. What single 
good gift had the gods withheld from him ? 
Here he was, thirty years old, in glorious health, 
with abundant wealth, not a care in the world, 
an innocent soul, and, to crown all, you for a 
wife ! 

Yet, as I spoke, I saw come into his face a 
look that puzzled me. It was very fugitive ; 
in a second it had passed. But it left me with 
a vague feeling of misgiving. His lips had 
parted slightly, his eyes had become wide open 
and fixed, with pupils dilated ; his general ex- 
pression had been that of sudden fright, — the 
scared look of a man abruptly startled by a 
reminder or an intimation of impending danger. 
It forced upon me the conjecture that Knight 
had in his mind some reason for anxiety, for 
alarm, which at my words had recurred to his 
consciousness, bringing a twinge of terror, 


20 


Two Voices. 


But, as I say, it was very transitory, crossing 
his face and departing like a shadow. 

“Yes,” he rejoined, “I am singularly and 
richly blessed ; but your inference is wrong. I 
am the least enviable man alive. If it were 
not for one thing, I should be the happiest. 
My happiness would be unmitigated, absolute. 
But as it is — well, I give you my word, you 
err if you envy me.” 

“One thing,” I repeated. “There’s the 
humanity of it. Everybody has one thing too 
much or too little. Well, in your case what 
does the one thing happen to be? ” 

“ A truth of life to which my eyes have 
been opened, to which I cannot close them 
any more,” said he. 

“What truth of life?” I questioned. 

Knight waited a little before he spoke, 
gazing the while abstractedly at the wall. 


Dies Irce. 


21 


Then: “ I doubt if you will understand me,” 
he returned. “ It will be better for you if you 
don’t perhaps. Though, perhaps, in the long 
run, it is on the whole best to acknowledge the 
truth. You were always very imaginative, 
Norbert, and therefore always very sympathe- 
tic. If you were less so, or if we had not been 
so intimate, I should not dare to mention it to 
you. Do you know, I have never mentioned 
it to any one as yet, — not even to Elinor. I 
have never mentioned it, but I believe it is 
never altogether absent from my thoughts.” 

“ And it is — ?” I prompted, as he paused. 

“ It is this. It is death. It is the fear, the 
constant hideous anticipation of death.” 

His face was ghastly as he pronounced the 
word. All the- color had faded from it. Even 
the lips were whitish. And it seemed, too, all 
at once to have lost in substance, and to have 


22 


Two Voices. 


changed in structure. It seemed as though 
the cheeks had become sunken, the eyes hollow. 
The corners of the mouth were drawn down as 
if he suffered physical pain. 

Shocked, perplexed, frightened — “ Death ? ” 
I repeated. “ The fear of death ? What do 
you mean ? ” 

“ Yes, death : the fear of death. It is that 
which blackens the whole sky for me, and 
turns my life into a nightmare.” 

“ But I don’t understand. Do you mean — 
for God’s sake, do you mean that there is any. 
thing the matter with — with Elinor? ” 

“No, no; not Elinor. Not Miss Kingslake. 
Myself. The knowledge that sooner or later I 
have inevitably got to die, and the frightful 
uncertainty when death may come. How do 
I know ? It may come twenty years hence ; 
it may come in twenty hours, in — in twenty 


Dies IrcB. 


23 


minutes.” He shuddered and shrank deeper 
into his chair, casting a glance around the 
room, as if he feared that death in person 
might be lurking in one of the corners. It was 
a most distressing sight — this strong, young, 
and otherwise manly man thus overwhelmed 
and undone by extreme terror. “ How do I 
know? What do I know? All I know is this, 
that it is bound to come some time. Isn’t 
that enough ? The horrible uncertain im- 
minence of death! Oh, it is hideous! It 
turns my life into an agony, an unceasing sus- 
pense and horror. All day long, everywhere I 
go, it goes with me, and at night, if I sleep, I 
dream of it. See ! We are seated here in 
comfort, insecurity. In what we call security, 
at least. But where is there the smallest real 
security against death ? Not in stone walls, 
nor iron bars, nor suits of mail, nor chests of 


24 


Two Voices. 


medicine. How do I know that I may not be 
dead before this time to-morrow? ” 

He leaned forward, speaking with intense 
passion. And that scared look was vivid in his 
face. Now he sank back again into his chair, 
and breathed quick and hard, as if exhausted. 

“ Good heavens, Knight,” cried I, “ do you 
mean to say that you’ve got heart disease?” 

He laughed — dryly, unmirthfully. “ Heart 
disease! Hear the materialist! No, nothing 
of that sort. I’m in perfect health. I have no 
disease.” 

“ Well, then, for the love of reason, why do 
you bother about death ? Have you an enemy 
prowling around after you with a loaded gun ? ” 
“ I don’t believe I have any enemies — no. 
Not now, that you and I are reconciled.” 

“ Well, then, in the name of common-sense, 
why do you bother about death ? ” 


Dies Irce. 


25 


“ Have I got to die some time or not ? Can 
I hope for immunity from death ? Can you — 
can any man — assure me that I shall not be 
dead within a week? How, then, may I help 
‘bothering’ about death? Shall I drug myself 
into obliviousness ? ” 

“ I confess, Knight, I’m at a loss. You non- 
plus me. Do you fancy you’re an exception 
to' the rule ? We’ve all got to die some time, 
I’m credibly informed. But those of us who 
possess sane brains in sound bodies — we don’t 
waste much strength worrying about death. 
We get our lives insured, and let the companies 
do the worrying. Sufficient unto the day is 
the evil thereof. No, I don’t understand you. 
What sickly frame of mind have you wrought 
yourself into? Here is a strong man, rich in 
all the good things of life, and instead of en- 
joying them and being thankful for them, he 


26 


Two Voices. 


sits trembling and chattering at the thought of 
death ! And that on the eve of his wedding- 
day ! To-morrow he’s to be married, and to- 
night he talks of dying! Pshaw! You’re 
morbid, puerile, and cowardly. A sensible 
man never thinks of death. Liber homo de 
nihil minusquam de morte putat." 

“That, Norbert,” Knight rejoined quietly, 
“is the falsest word that ever a great philoso- 
pher spoke. The very contrary is true. It is 
the emancipated man — liber homo — the man of 
courage and enlightenment — it is he who does 
think of death. Not to think of death is 
ostrich-like, is indeed puerile and cowardly, and 
I may say morbid. Death, the one inevitable 
and universal experience, the one birthright in 
which all men share alike, the common goal to 
which all life is but a progress, the conclusion, 
the solution, the fifth act of this mystifying, 


Dies Ira. 


27 


inexplicable drama of life, — not think of it ! 
Here is life, a Sphynx enigma, perpetually 
vexing the mind and the soul of the man who 
has a mind and a soul to vex. There is death, 
which holds the enigma’s key. And yet you 
say don’t think of death, — banish it, blink it, 
forget it. That, I tell you, is stupid and super- 
ficial, puerile, cowardly, and morbid. What 
theory, what hypothesis, what principle of life 
can you frame, except as you think of death ? 
And some one theory and principle of life, for 
daily use, you must frame, or else you cannot 
live, you cannot transact the business of life. 
Furthermore, according to your conception of 
death, your assumption of what death holds in 
store, must your whole conception of life’s 
meaning, purpose, and duty be shaped and col- 
ored ; in one word, your ethics. And, finally, 
what semblance of a religion can you have, 


28 


Two Voices . 


if its cardinal dogma does not deal with 
death? Not think of death ! How unthink- 
ing is he who does not think of death! 
You rivet your gaze on the surface of 
things, and shun the deep places. You feed 
yourself upon the outward appearances of 
things, and leave the inward realities untasted. 
You consider only the transitory, and forget 
the eternal. — But how, if you are human, how 
can you help thinking of death? You have 
just quoted to me the falsest word that a great 
philosopher ever put his name to — Liber homo 
de nihil minusquam de morte putat. Now, I will 
cap your quotation with a better one, because 
it is a true one : In the midst of life we are in 
death. How can you help thinking of death ? 
How do you dull your mind to that degree ? 
Could Damocles help thinking of the sword ? 
Is not the sword of death impending over your 


Dies Irce. 


29 


head — yes, indeed, your devoted head — every 
hour and minute of your life, daytime and 
nighttime, wheresoever you go, from the first 
breath you draw in your cradle, until all at 
once it falls? Dare you, I asked awhile ago — 
dare you lay a wager that it will not have fal- 
len by this time to-morrow ? How do we know ? 
What do we know? Within this very hour 
your dead body may be lying at my feet, or 
mine at yours. Not think of the black hand 
forever raised to strike you ! Not think of the 
grim companion who stalks forever at your 
elbow ! When the black hand may deal its 
blow at any instant ; the grim comrade at 
any instant pluck your sleeve and whisper, 
‘Come, you are mine’! Not think of death! 
Oh !” 

He had begun, as I have noted, by speaking 
quietly; but as he went on his composure van- 


30 


Two Voices . 


ished, giving place to an excitement which, 
toward the end, had intensified into something 
like ecstasy. His voice increased in stress and 
volume, his eyes burned, he leaned forward 
and gesticulated earnestly. Now he fell back 
into the depth of his chair, and closed his eyes, 
and laid his hand across his forehead, where 
the swollen veins showed purple against the 
white skin. 

I own I had been impressed and stirred by 
what he had said, or by his manner of saying 
it. In my emotion I forgot the hundred ex- 
cellent reasons I had to urge against him. A 
wiser man than I, however, observing how the 
subject agitated his interlocutor, would have 
dropped it, introducing a new one. I shall 
never cease most bitterly to reproach myself 
for my folly in pursuing it. If our conversa- 
tion had stopped at that point, the act, the 


Dies Tree. 


31 


crime, that followed it, would very probably 
never have been committed. 

In my unwisdom I rejoined: “Well, even 
so! What of it ? Why should you fear death 
so? What is there to be afraid of? Yes, in- 
dubitably, each mother’s son of us may die at 
any moment. But why should we dread death, 
shrink from death ? The bodily agony, even if 
supreme, cannot be of long duration ; and as for 
the future life, if there is one, we have no reason 
to expect that it will be worse than the present.” 

“ Ah, there is just the point ! ” cried Knight. 
“ The future life ! You say, if there is one. I 
am convinced there is.” 

“ Well, even so ! What of it ? What I fail 
to understand is, why you should fear it. What 
shadow of a reason have you for imagining that 
it will be less endurable than the life we know 
here ? ” 


32 


Two Voices. 


“ It is not a question of imagining, Norbert ; 
it is a matter of demonstrable fact. In the fu- 
ture life, — here is the horrible knowledge that 
lies upon my conscience day and night, tortur- 
ing it like a coal of fire, racking me with an 
utter horror and dread of death, — in the future 
life my portion will be hell.” 

I looked at him. His face was livid. His 
lips were drawn back until they exposed the 
teeth. His fingers were clenched. His eyes 
stared fixedly at the wall in front of him, with 
a light in them that was almost maniacal. 

“ Hell ! What ? What ! Good Lord, Knight, 
what ails you ? To make you talk like that, to 
make you look like that ? Are you hoaxing 
me ? Are you acting ? Or are you imbecile ? 
Hell ! What do you think you mean ? ” 

“ I am not hoaxing you, nor acting a part, 
nor am I imbecile. I mean what I say, abso- 


Dies Irce . 


33 

lutely, exactly. After my death I shall find 
myself in hell.” 

“ May I be permitted to ask a question ? ” 

“ Twenty if you like.” 

“ Very well. Since when have you believed 
in hell ? — you who, of all rationalists, used to 
be the extremest?” 

“Since I cut my wisdom teeth. Since my 
eyes were opened to the obvious. I never was 
more of a rationalist than when, plucking up 
my courage, I dared to follow my reason to 
the furthest depth it would lead me, and there 
recognized the necessity, the inevitableness of 
hell.” 

“ I declare, Knight, I think you are losing 
your mind. What reactionary talk is this ? 
Those of us who are enlightened, in this age 
of the world’s development, have seen clearly 
that given any personal future life at all, it 


34 


Two Voices . 


must be a gradual and natural sequel to this 
life, — a logical continuation of it, — that the soul 
will begin there where it left off here ; that it 
is the height of absurdity to expect an imme- 
diate and immense translation to a heaven or 
to a hell. Yet you — Do you live in the nine- 
teenth century or are you floundering in the 
ignorance and the superstition of the twelfth ? 
You talk of hell! .... Well, taking hell for 
granted, what crimes are you guilty of, what 
deadly sins have you committed, that you 
deem yourself doomed to hell ? ” 

“ None that I know of. I have committed 
no crimes to my knowledge ; and I believe my 
worst sins have been venial. But that is neither 
here nor there, or rather — no, that again is just 
the point. I will speak of that in a moment. 
What strikes me at present is the sublime con- 
ceit of ‘ those of us who are enlightened.’ What 


Dies Iroe . 


35 


new and special revelation have you received — 
you who are enlightened — that you describe 
with such confidence and such complacency 
the nature of the future life? Oh, the comfort- 
able, the flattering theology of the men ! The 
future life shall be but a natural and gradual 
sequel to this life — a logical continuation 
of it. We shall begin there where we left 
off here — smoothly, easily, without break, 
without violence ! I tell you, man, in the 
future life every valley shall be exalted, 
and every mountain and hill shall be 
made low, and the crooked shall be made 
straight, and the rough places plain. There 
is no reason, no purpose, no justice, no excuse, 
for a future life which shall be but an easy and 
comfortable continuation of this ; so that I, 
who have the start and the advantage here, 
shall have the eternal start, the eternal advan- 


36 


Two Voices. 


tage, over yonder poor devil at this moment 
begging, or perhaps stealing, or it may be even 
murdering in the streets. In the streets, Nor- 
bert, shivering under the open sky, in body 
and mind and soul low and evil and loathsome ; 
while I sit here in my safe house, before my 
fire, well fed, well clad, clean and virtuous and 
beloved. The valley must be exalted, the 
mountain and hill laid low ; the crooked must 
be made straight, the rough places plain. 
They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. 
There must be a heaven and a hell, to correct 
the inequalities, to atone for the injustices, 
that we are in the midst of here. Hell? 
heaven ? Of course I don’t mean a hell of fire 
and brimstone, a heaven of music and glory. 
I mean a hell and heaven of the spirit ; two 
opposite conditions of the soul.” 

Knight had spoken with such unquestioned 


Dies Irce. 


37 


ble sincerity, it was impossible not to take him 
seriously, and answer him respectfully. There- 
fore I said : “ Well, granting all that, grant- 

ing hell, heaven — everything you wish, — I have 
not yet understood, and I am particularly 
interested to learn, why you anticipate hell as 
your individual lot. You tell me you are 
guilty of no crimes, and that your worst sins 
have been venial. I, who know you pretty 
well, I should say that you have led a singu- 
larly moral and virtuous life. Why, then, hell 
for you ? ” 

“ As I said a moment ago, the very point of 
the matter lies just there. I am rich, Norbert ; 
and it is easier — it is easier for a camel to go 
through the eye of a needle, than for a rich 
man to enter into the kingdom of God.” 

I lost patience. “ Oh, come, Knight,” I 
protested, “you don’t mean to say that you 


38 Two Voices . 

believe such — such — ” I hesitated for a word. 

“Such what?” demanded Knight, turning 
large, surprised eyes upon my face. 

“Such — oh, well, you know, that’s utterly 
unreasonable. That’s nonsense. Because a 
man chances to be rich, — because he has inher- 
ited wealth or legitimately acquired it, — he 
must be excluded from the kingdom of God ! 
Oh, you know as well as I do, that’s prepos- 
terous.” 

“Unreasonable? Preposterous?” Knight 
repeated, with the air of a man who mistrusts 
his hearing. 

“ Exactly so.” 

“ You— you forget, perhaps, who said it ? ” 

“No, I remember perfectly who said it.” 

“ And do you venture to assert of any small- 
est word that fell from His lips that it is un- 
reasonable or preposterous?” 


Dies Irce. 


39 



“ It was to your construction of the word 
that I applied those terms. It wasn’t meant 
literally.” 

“Can you tell me of any figurative con- 
struction that it will bear ? ” 

“ The ‘ eye of a needle ’ referred to was a 
famous gateway, through which it was difficult 
for a loaded camel to pass, — difficult, mark you, 
but not impossible. It means, therefore, that 
the average rich man may have some difficulty 
getting into the kingdom of heaven, because 
the average rich man is apt to be purse-proud 
and ungenerous and over-fond of the pleasures 
of the flesh.” 

“A deceit and a sham, Norbert,” Knight 
cried ; “ invented by wealth-loving ecclesiastics, 
themselves rich, to the end of reconciling their 
unchristian practices to such shreds of Christi- 
anity as they had left. According to that 


40 


Two Voices . 


reading, Christ’s declaration is virtually mean- 
ingless, and I think we shall be safe in assum- 
ing that Christ always meant something when 
He spoke.” 

“ Well then, it means a bad rich man.” 

“ It doesn’t say so. As it stands it covers 
all rich men.” 

“ Well, then, it is unreasonable. It never 
could have been so meant by Christ. The 
notion that all rich men, good and bad, with- 
out discrimination, are destined to perdition 
is monstrous. I know no sane person who 
will maintain the contrary.” 

“ I am sane.” 

I was beginning very seriously to doubt this. 
But I confined myself to saying, “ Well ? ” 

“Well, I am sane, and I will maintain the 
contrary. It was meant literally ; it is literally 
true, It is easier for a camel to go through the 


Dies Ir<z. 


41 


eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter 
into the kingdom of God.” 

“ Which is a mere repetition of your previous 
assertion, not justified by the faintest scintilla 
of argument. I should be curious to hear your 
reasons, though, if you have any. It’s a singu- 
lar thesis. I should be interested to know 
what circumstances you can allege in support 
of it. But waiving that for the moment, there’s 
a manifest way out of your difficulties. You 
believe yourself doomed to hell because you 
are rich. Well and good. Sell all you have 
and give it to the poor.” 

“Ah, yes if I could — if I could. But there’s 
the worst of it. I can’t.” 

“Can’t? Oh, well, then you simply lack the 
courage of your convictions, and hell will serve 
you right. If a man sees his salvation tan- 
gible before him, but is too weak to grasp it, 


42 


Two Voices. 


he has no one but himself to blame if he is 
damned.” 

“ Oh, Norbert, you are obtuseness itself. 
Materialist that you are, you conceive by the 
word ‘ riches’ material riches only. Those in- 
deed I could give to the poor. But that would 
not mend matters in any smallest degree. The 
poor would remain as poor as ever ; I should 
still be a rich man. Material wealth is nothing. 
It is my spiritual wealth, — my wealth of soul 
and mind, — which damns me. That I can 
neither sell nor give away, nor sequester, nor 
in any wise forfeit nor get rid of. That is en- 
tailed upon me. So long as I draw the breath 
of this life in this body I shall be a rich man, 
and that is my damnation. Superior parts and 
culture, the love of the woman who to-morrow 
will be my wife, refinement, virtuous predisposi- 
tions — there is my wealth — I cannot alienate it.” 


Dies Tree . 


43 


I looked at the man in amazement. “ I give 
you up,” I faltered. “ So well as I compre- 
hend it, you mean that you are to be damned 
for your virtues ! It’s a paradox which I own 
myself unable to cope with. Go on. I am 
waiting to be convinced that you are not 
insane.” 

“ I said at the outset, Norbert, that you 
would probably not understand me. I said, 
too, that perhaps it would be better for you if 
you should not understand me ; better for 
your peace of mind, I meant. But then, on 
second thoughts, I said, it is perhaps always 
best in the long run to recognize and confess 
the truth. Thus far you have not understood 
me ; you have not seen the truth. Now, if 
you like, I will make you understand me ; I 
will show you the truth so vividly that you 
shall not forget nor doubt it ever again. If 


44 


Two Voices. 


you like, mind ! I make that stipulation ; for 
I warn you beforehand that the fruit of the 
tree of knowledge is bitter, and that if you 
taste of it, it will poison your life as it has 
poisoned mine. It’s for you to choose.” 

“ Go ahead,” I said lightly, “ I guess I can 
stand it.” 

“At your peril, remember. Well, here; you 
cried out just now, ‘ he expects to be damned 
for his virtues ! ’ and you derided that for a 
paradox. Thereby you showed that on these 
subjects you have done no independent think- 
ing ; that you have swallowed whole the empty 
husks of formulas which constitute the diet of 
those people who take their creeds at second 
hand, their theologies by hearsay. You 
showed that you still profess the ethical doc- 
trine which deems it meet and proper that a 
man should be rewarded for the good he does 


Dies Irce. 


45 


and punished for the evil ; saved for his virtues 
and damned for his sins. Now I say, that 
is indeed a paradox — a fallacy, repugnant to 
the feelings of every man who has a sense of 
fair play, inadmissible to the mind of every 
man who will give the matter two minutes of 
honest thought. For consider a little. It pro- 
ceeds upon the assumption of a free will — a 
free will, and a consequent moral responsi- 
bility. But you, who know a few principles of 
science, you know as well as I do that there is 
no such thing, that there can be no such thing, 
that no such thing is conceivable in man, as a 
free will, nor, therefore, a moral responsibility. 
You know that we are one and all of us under 
the iron and all-inclusive dominion of Neces- 
sity ; that we can no more help doing what we 
do, than we can help being what we are. 
According to the law of cause and effect, you 


46 Two Voices . 

know that what I do is the unavoidable result 
of what I am at the moment when I do it ; 
and you know that what I am at that moment 
is the unavoidable result of my heredity and my 
environment ; in other words, of my two sets of 
experiences : my preconceptual experiences — 
that is, the experiences of my ancestors back 
to the beginning of life ; and my postconcep- 
tual experiences — that is, my experiences since 
the planting of the seed from which I sprang. 
You know that I am no more accountable for 
my moral character, nor for my intellectual 
abilities, than I am for the structure of my 
body or the color of my eyes. You know that 
the sinner is no more to blame for his sins, 
than the good man is to praise for his good 
deeds ; that the idiot is no more to blame for 
his infirmity, than the philosopher is to praise 
for his genius ; that the hunchback is no more 


Dies Irce . 


4 7 


to blame for his deformity, than the grenadier 
is to praise for his handsome figure. You know, 
in one word, that we do not make ourselves. 
If I am an idiot, it is due to my heredity and my 
environment, which have given me this struc- 
ture of brain ; if I am a poet, it is due to my her- 
edity and my environment, which have given me 
that structure of brain. By the same token, if 
I am a knave, it is because my heredity and 
my environment have shaped me thus and so ; 
if I am a hero, it is because my heredity and 
my environment have shaped me so and thus. 
Is the tiger to blame who waxes wroth at the 
scent of blood? Can the poor beast help it? 
If I pick a pocket, it is because I cannot help 
it ; if I cut a throat, it is because I cannot help 
it ; if I save a life, it is because I cannot help 
it ; if I write a good book, it is because I can- 
not help it ; if I ruin my life through a folly 


48 


Two Voices. 


of my own commission, it is because I cannot 
help it. In no case am I to blame, in no case 
to praise. Factor Necessity, and you obtain 
Heredity and Environment. Well and good. 
You know all this as well as I do. Now here 
is what I want you to explain : If yonder 
wretched wife-beater, thief, cutthroat, liar, be- 
sotted brute — if he is not to blame for his 
misdoings, since he cannot help them, since he 
is the poor prisoner and victim of necessity, 
why, I beg you to explain, why should he be 
damned for them? Why not as justly damn 
him for the color of his hair ? ” 

“Just so! Why, indeed?” cried I. “My 
dear Knight, you have expended a vast deal of 
energy and ingenuity in knocking over a man 
of straw. I have not said that he should be 
damned. I say no one should be damned — 
that the very notion of hell is in itself intoler- 


Dies Irce. 


49 


able. But certainly I can’t see why, if the sin- 
ner isn’t to be damned for his sins, the virtuous 
man should be damned for his virtues. He 
couldn’t help it, either. As justly damn him 
for the color of his hair.” 

“No, no; stop there. You go a step too 
far. You forget, you ignore, the principle of 
fair play, of turn and turn about. For one 
moment look with me upon the world around 
us ; contemplate a little the life-drama in which 
we are actors. See ! Here is a world in which 
one man, thanks not to himself, but thanks to 
Necessity, — to his heredity and his environ- 
ment, — to his birth, to his inherited faculties 
and predispositions, to his education, — grows 
up to be healthy in body, strong in intellect, 
virtuous in his impulses, happy, rich ; rich, it 
may be, in the material comforts of life, but 
richer in spiritual wealth, in his clear con- 


50 


Two Voices. 


science, his high and able mind, his generous 
heart, in the love and the respect which he is 
empowered to win of his fellows. And here, 
Norbert, here in this same world, another man, 
thanks not to /zz’;/zself, either, but thanks again 
to Necessity, to his heredity and his environ- 
ment , — his birth, his inherited faculties and 
predispositions, his education, — grows up dis- 
eased in body, dull in mind, depraved in 
soul, a coward, a liar, a criminal, despised 
and rejected of all decent men, poor in all 
the good things of life, poor in spirit. Now 
there — there is an obvious, gross, terrible in- 
justice. Is there not? Horrible to think of, 
horrible to admit, yet absolutely undeniable. 
You will go with me in saying that. And in 
view of it, one of two things we must believe is 
true — either this world is a monstrosity, created 
and governed by an arch devil ; or else, some- 


Dies Irce. 


51 


how, some time, beyond the grave, the in- 
justice that appalls us here must be amended, 
atoned for, wiped out. Either this life drama 
is a wanton tragedy of woe and evil — an ad 
bestias spectacle devised for the gratification 
of the arch fiend — or else, in the fifth act — the 
act upon which the curtain of death shall rise — 
Justice shall come upon the scene, and exalt 
the valley and lay low the hill ; giving to the 
poor wretch who has had his hell of pain and 
evil here his fling at heaven ; to me, who have 
had my heaven here, my taste of hell. They 
that sow in tears shall reap in joy, and vice 
versd. Blessed are they that mourn, for they 
shall be comforted. Blessed are the poor in 
spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 
Into that kingdom, it is easier for a camel to 
go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich 
man to enter. Look, Norbert, look! Here 


52 


Two Voices . 


am I, Theodore Knight. Thirty years ago I 
was born — on the 1st day of June, 1856. I was 
born in the lap of luxury, with a golden spoon 
in my mouth, of a long line of healthy, virtuous, 
intelligent, and highly educated ancestors. 
Watch my bringing up ; in a home of virtue 
and culture, by a good mother, a good father; 
where I am sedulously guarded from every 
breath of evil, where I am tenderly nursed 
when I am ill, petted when I am well, correct- 
ed when I do wrong, encouraged when I do 
right ; where every influence — material, mental, 
moral — that bears upon me, is calculated to 
make me healthy, intelligent, and good. On 
that same day — June 1, 1856 — let us say, an- 
other baby, willy-nilly, is born into this world. 
He is born of a long line of criminals and pau- 
pers, people of low intellects, bad instincts, 
foul bodies, His father is a drunkard, a thief, 


Dies Irce. 


53 


a wife-beater. His mother is a drunkard, too, 
and something worse besides. He is born in 
the slums of this city, in a room reeking with 
filth. He is brought up in squalor, under the 
auspices of that father and mother. His play- 
ground is the gutter. His playmates are the 
offspring of parents as abandoned as his own. 
He is ill fed, ill clad, ill cleaned, ill taught. 
He is beaten for nothing. Every influence, 
material, mental, moral, that bears upon him 
is pestilential ; is calculated to degrade and 
brutalize him in body and mind and soul. Oh, 
Norbert, how can any man who has a heart, 
how can he contemplate inequality and in- 
justice like this, and continue to revel in his beU 
ter fortune? Into the race of life these two 
competitors enter, one in perfect training, the 
other worse than untrained and congenitally 
inferior ; .one given a long start and every ad- 


54 


Two Voices. 


vantage, the other handicapped and saddled 
with a heavy burden ! But stay. Follow us a 
little further. We grow to maturity, that other 
man and I. At the age of thirty — to-morrow 
even — I, rich, happy, virtuous, intelligent — I 
consummate my earthly bliss by marrying an 
angel of womanhood, whose love I have been 
suffered to win, and whom I love. He, brute 
beast that his heredity and his environment 
have made him — he, a mere puppet in the 
hands of necessity — he commits a murder, and 
is hanged, or shut up blood-stained in prison 
for the remainder of his days. What manner 
of world is it in which such things can happen? 
unless, indeed, you go with me in the convic- 
tion that beyond the grave our accounts — his 
and mine — shall be squared and balanced ; 
that there he, who sowed here in tears, shall 
reap in joy, while it will be my turn to sin and 


Dies Irce . 


55 


suffer. i Oh,’ some shallow people cry, 4 he 
had his chance. Other men have risen high 
from beginnings as low as his; other men have 
sunken low from beginnings as high as yours. 
He had his chance to rise, you had your chance 
to fall. You were both called upon to choose 
between good and evil. You chose the good, 
he chose the bad. It was his fault, it is to your 
crecfit.’ All which, as you and I know, Nor- 
bert, simply begs the question — is superficial 
and unscientific to the last degree. For, in the 
first place, since we were born unequal, no one 
will pretend that we had equal chances ; and 
in the second, when it was time for us to choose, 
how came I by the propensity which resulted 
in my choosing the good ? How came he by 
the propensity which resulted in his choosing 
the bad? You know what the answer is — 
heredity and environment. You know that 


56 


Two Voices . 


the evil is one which we can neither deny nor 
explain nor amend. But beyond the grave — 
beyond the grave ! There the tables will be 
turned. The creditor will receive his due, the 
debtor will pay his debt. They that mourn 
shall be comforted. The last shall be first, and 
the first shall be last.” 

“ Dear Knight,” I rejoined, “ you are grap- 
pling with the old problem of evil ; but you 
have not solved it, though you think you have. 
You have removed it from this side the grave 
to the other, that is all. Evil is still there ; 
and that is the incomprehensible thing — that 
there should be evil at all. You have not 
solved the problem. Reduced to its lowest 
terms, your philosophy is this : that two wrongs 
make a right. There is wrong here ; therefore, 
as you say, ‘to square accounts,’ there must be 
wrong there. You have not solved the prob* 


Dies Irce. 


57 


lem ; you may not solve it. It is insoluble 
by man, like all the ultimate problems of life. 
And since you may never solve it, I warn you 
to let it alone. Much brooding over it can do 
no manner of good, but immeasurable harm. 
That way madness lies. Even now see how it 
has embittered and darkened your life. You 
have jumped to a terrible conclusion, and instead 
of finding rest there, you find only horror and 
increased vexation of spirit. Think — think of 
Elinor, Knight. To-morrow she will be your 
wife. How dreadful for her that her hus- 
band should hold such a creed ! She does not 
know it? You have never mentioned these 
matters to her? But is she not a woman? 
And does she not love you? And what 
with her woman’s intuitions and her wife- 
ly love, you may be sure that, whether she 
speaks or remains silent, she will feel that there 


58 


Two Voices. 


is something wrong — a shadow upon your life, 
a secret between her heart and yours. Oh, it 
is terrible for her! All the ultimate problems 
of life are insoluble, unthinkable, by man’s 
brain. The book of life is opened to us at just 
one page ; the remainder is hermetically sealed. 
That page we may read. It is covered with per- 
plexities, inconsistencies, anomalies, anachron- 
isms, that baffle and balk us ; and with cruel- 
ties and foulnesses that appall and horrify us. 
But the connection of that page with the pages 
that go before and come after, — what the plot, 
motive, meaning, purpose, of the whole book 
may be, — that we do not know, we have no 
means of learning, we cannot guess, though 
some of us perpetually try to do so. The page 
we see, written in rock and fire, in tears and 
blood, more harrowing than a page from the 
annals of the Spanish Inquisition, we cannot 


Dies Tree . 


59 


hope to understand, nor to explain, nor to 
reconcile to our sense of right and justice, be- 
cause the premises and the conclusions are hid- 
den from us. Man cannot by seeking find out 
God. Nature, red in tooth and claw with 
ravine, shrieks against our creed. We must 
take our God on faith, believing where we can- 
not prove. We can prove nothing : we can 
only trust. ‘ Behold I know not anything ; I 
can but trust.’ Tennyson has sung the whole 
pain perfectly. You — you have devised one 
hypothesis out of a million that are possible, 
and to that you cling as if it were God’s 
authenticated truth, instead of one feeble man’s 
imagining. There are a million possible hy- 
potheses, I say. Another friend of mine, whose 
rest like yours was destroyed by the omni- 
present spectacle and mystery of evil, has come 
to believe in a universal law of compensation, 


6o 


Two Voices. 


holding that no one sentient animal, oyster or 
man, prince or pauper, is in the long run bet- 
ter off than another ; that the higher your 
organization and the more intense and complex 
your enjoyments, so is your susceptibility to 
pain greater, so are your sufferings also in- 
tenser and more complex. Still another man 
I know professes the doctrine of universal 
metempsychosis — that each spark of conscious- 
ness, each soul, is an indivisible and inde- 
structible entity, destined to pass through every 
form, phase, and experience of life, from polyp 
to man, from slave to emperor, from sinner to 
saint, until, in the end, having completed the 
cycle, having exhausted all possible experi- 
ences, it shall attain the condition of eternal 
rest and omniscience — Nirvana. What do we 
know? How do we know? Questions you 
yourself propounded. We can but trust — : 


Dies Irce. 


61 


That somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 

To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet. 

That not one life shall be destroyed, 

Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete, — 

that there is indeed one far off, divine event, 
toward which the whole creation moves. We 
know nothing, we can know nothing. Specu- 
lation is worse than futile. And that is why 
the brave man, the emancipated man, never 
thinks of death.” 

“Well,” said Knight, “ there’s none so blind 
as he who will not see. And perhaps I should 
congratulate you upon your ability to silence 
the harsh voice of life, crying aloud terrible 
truths, with a few rhymes from Tennyson. 
For me, I cannot do it — I cannot do it. For 
me, I can see no other way out of the difficulty 


62 


Two Voices . 


than a general reckoning and balancing of 
scores beyond the grave.” 

Ever since our talk had left the personal 
ground, and proceeded upon the abstract, 
Knight had shown no symptoms of that terror 
which had weakened and unmanned him at the 
outset. But now all at once he turned deathly 
pale, and his eyes riveted themselves upon the 
wall before him with an expression of such 
livid fright that one might have thought he 
saw a ghost there. Huskily, almost in a whis- 
per, “ Norbert, Norbert,” he called out. 

“What is it? What ails you?” I cried, 
starting up and advancing toward him. He 
looked like a man on the verge of a fainting 
fit. 

“ What, what if — what if it should happen 
to-night ? ” he gasped. • 

“Happen? To-night? What do you mean ? 


Dies Irce. 63 

What if what should happen to-night ? ” I 
questioned. 

“ If I should die to-night,” he answered, in a 
tense, tremulous whisper. 

“ Oh ! ” I fell back in disgust at his pueril- 
ity. I looked down upon him, white and hud- 
dled-up in his chair. “I’m ashamed of you, 
Knight,” I said, “ and you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself.” 

“ I’m past shame, Norbert — far, long past 
shame. When it comes to an issue between 
shame and terror, shame goes to the wall.” 

“ So I see,” I retorted scornfully. “ Shame 
and self-respect.” 

“Yes, shame, self-respect, ambition, love — 
everything. Terror is the king of the emo- 
tions. They all fall down and hide their 
faces in its presence. Oh, Norbert, Norbert, 
I am a most unhappy man. And yet you 


64 Two Voices. 

spoke of envying me, and you congratulated 

„ ^ »» 
me. 

“Well, I take that back. I don’t envy you, 
and I withdraw my congratulations.” 

“Do you know — do you know what I am 
sometimes tempted to do ? ” he asked. 

“No. What?” I queried. 

“I am sometimes tempted to call out to the 
sword to fall, and so have an end of this sus- 
pense.” 

“ I don’t understand you,” said I. “ What 
do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean — I mean — why defer the inevitable? 
With this never-ceasing horror and dread of 
death upon me, why not take my life, and so 
learn the worst at once? It’s the suspense — 
the daily, hourly, lingering suspense — that’s 
killing me by inches. Oh, I would prefer hell 
itself almost to this sort of life. Look ! I am 


Dies Ira. 


65 


lying with my head upon the block, waiting for 
the ax to fall. It will be a relief — yes, it will 
be a relief when the executioner deals his blow. 
This waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting — oh, it is 
unbearable ! Yes, I am often tempted to put an 
end to it. You see, I keep the means at hand.” 
He opened a drawer of his writing table, and 
took out a pistol, holding it up for me to see. 

‘‘You coward!” I cried. “Do you forget 
that you are a betrothed husband ? ” 

“ No, I remember that ; but I don’t know — 
perhaps it would be better for her if— -Well, 
anyhow, it would be very easy, wouldn’t it?” 
He pointed the pistol at himself, as if to illus- 
trate how easy it would be. 

“For God’s sake, don’t do that?” I ex- 
claimed. “ Put down that pistol, Knight.” 
And I rose from my chair, half-disposed to 
take it from him. 


66 


Two Voices. 


The next thing I knew I heard him give a 
sort of laugh, and then I heard the report of 
the pistol going off, and the room was filled 
with smoke, and I saw him lying bleeding at 
my feet. 

* % * * % * ' * 

There. I have told you the truth about 
Knight’s death as fully and as clearly as I can 
tell it. The only wish I have left in life now 
is that you will read what I have written and 
believe that I was not his murderer. The cir- 
cumstances have been all against me ; I know 
that. He was to be married to the woman 
who had rejected me ; we had quarreled ; then 
I was closeted alone with him for two hours on 
the night preceding his wedding day; we were 
heard to talk together excitedly and vehemently 
during that meeting ; and finally I had rushed 
downstairs, calling for help and saying that 


Dies Irce . 


67 


Mr. Knight had shot himself ; and the pre- 
sumption was that I had shot him. I told my 
story, but it was intrinsically most improbable, 
and nobody believed it. Knight had kept his 
morbid state of mind a secret to all those who 
knew him. There was not a single shred of 
evidence to confirm my story, to show that I 
had not manufactured it from whole cloth. 
The jury found me guilty, and on Monday 
morning the Court will sentence me to prison. 

But, as I have said, I can bear all that. I 
have reached a pass where I care very little 
what happens to me — where I am callous even 
to disgrace. Only it burns my heart like fire 
to know that you think me guilty ; to know 
that you hold me accountable for the destruc- 
tion of your happiness, and that you despise 
me as one base and ignoble beyond contempt. 

May God move your heart to believe what I 
have written. 



\ 

De Profundis 


69 



Note . 

On Monday, January 7, 1889, there died in 
the Charity Hospital at New York a man 
named George Fairbairn, who had been an in- 
mate of that institution since the previous 
March. Apparently he had neither friends nor 
relatives ; at any rate he received no visitors, 
no letters ; and the Public Administrator ad- 
ministered upon his few and poor effects. 
Among these, written in lead pencil, in a dog- 
eared account-book, was the manuscript from 
which the following pages are copied. Per- 
haps, as containing the somewhat curious 
death-bed reflections of a sinner, they may be 
worth printing. 


11 



De Profundis. 


“ WHOSO diggeth a pit shall fall therein ; 
and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon 
him.” 

“ The wicked have drawn out the sword, and 
have bent their bow. . . . Their sword shall 
enter into their own heart, and their bows shall 
be broken.” 

“ They have sown the wind, and they shall 
reap the whirlwind.” 

So testify the ancient Hebrew poets; un- 
scientific, but, as some people still believe, in- 
spired of God. 

Folk equally unscientific, perhaps not equally 
73 


Two Voices. 


74 

inspired, certainly not equally poetical, of far 
other days and lands, profess the same faith. 
Witness the commonplace : Honesty is the 
best Policy. Witness the homely Yankee 
theory of “ come-upms.” “ Never fear,” aver 
our Yankee soothsayers of the evil-doer ; “ he’ll 
get his come-upms yet ! ” 

Modern scientific persons reaffirm and cor- 
roborate the doctrine. Ask Professor Huxley, 
Mr. Spencer. Indeed, of inductive ethics, is it 
not the whole point and burden ? That, if a 
man commit a sin, he will assuredly, sooner or 
later, this side the grave, suffer its conse- 
quences, — somehow, some time, before his 
death, he will have paid for every ounce and 
pennyweight of it with its equivalent of pain. 

“In violating a moral law, prima facie a 
social law, but in the last analysis a natural 
law, the agent thereby disturbs the proper ad- 


De Profiindis. 


75 


justment between himself and his environment : 
the result to him of such disturbance, of such 
maladjustment, must infallibly in the long run 
be discomfort.” 

“ He who strikes a blow at his neighbor, 
strikes a blow at the world ; he may depend 
upon it, the world will not forget to strike him 
back, very probably with interest compounded. 
The return blow may come in any one of a 
hundred, a thousand, different shapes; it may 
come to-morrow, it may come twenty years 
hence ; it may come suddenly, in one fell, 
crushing swoop, it may come gradually, in 
slow and small installments: but come it inev- 
itably must. Perhaps he will be caught red- 
handed, and hanged or locked up in jail ; in 
either or in neither case, visited with the odium 
of his fellow men. Perhaps he may escape 
detection, and be left to digest silently, in 


;6 


Two Voices. 


secret, his regret and his remorse. . . . But it 
does not matter how or when. He has hurled 
a boomerang into the air; he may count with 
serene assurance upon its reappearance now or 
anon. Indeed, it is as demonstrable as mathe- 
matics, a sin is its own penalty, just as virtue 
is its own reward ; for, even if he is never 
found out, even if he suffers never a pang of 
contrition, yet by the precise value of his 
transgression will the transgressor be a poorer 
man iij the good things of spiritual life.” 

“ In so much as ye do it unto one of the 
least of these, my members, ye do it unto Me, 
says the Community ; and unto Me, repeats 
the Race, of which the Community is but a 
nerve-cell ; and unto Me, echoes the Universe, 
of which the race is but a ganglion ; and unto 
Me, concludes the ultimate Mystery and Heart 
of Being, of which the Universe is but a phasis. 


De Profundis. 


11 


And — the meeting of extremes — very obvi- 
ously, therefore, unto Yourself. For, if you 
cannot injure the part without injuring the 
Whole, no more can you injure the Whole 
without injuring its every part; and of that 
Whole, what are you but an integral, insep- 
arable part ? ” 

Thus, not to multiply quotations, is the law 
laid down by modern scientific and philosophic 
persons. That they speak a truth will scarcely 
be disputed. The only sin to which, for a mo- 
ment, we might fancy their law inapplicable, is 
suicide. But for the sin of suicide is not pay- 
ment made in advance? — in struggle, in de- 
spair, in terror, in self-abasement? And who 
knows how supreme the woe may be of that 
last lucid interval, after its bonds are severed, 
before the principle of life departs ? 

Very well, then (it is concluded), there is a 


;s 


Two Voices. 


Spirit of Justice in the Nature of Things, after 
all. Wrong-doing is sure to be overtaken by 
Retribution. That is as it should be. Retri- 
butive Justice ! 

It is the question, Whether the phrase , “ Re- 
tributive Justice V is not a contradiction in terms ? 
which occurs to me ; as perfect a contradiction 
in terms as “ a straight curve,” “a black white- 
ness.” Whether there is so much as a scruple 
of Justice in Retribution? Whether, coming 
late or early, in driblets or all at once, there is 
anything but Injustice in Retribution ? I 
know it is our impulse to exult at the spectacle 
of the good man triumphant, of the wicked 
man cast down. But is not that impulse one 
of our many unreasonable impulses ? If we 
will put aside impulses and sentiments, and 
give ourselves to a dispassionate considera- 
tion of facts, fighting not shy of logical conse* 


De Profundis. 


79 


quences, how can we avoid this conclusion : 
that the heavy villain, found out by his villain- 
ies, and overtaken by Retribution, is, of all 
the persons in the play, the one who has 
been most unjustly dealt with? 

As we sow, accordingly we must reap. 
Yonder miserable sinner, having sown the wind, 
must reap the whirlwind. Having dug a pit, 
he must fall therein. Having made his bed of 
thorns and thistles, the poor wretch must lie in 
it. Having done what he has done, he^ must 
meet and accept the consequences. 

Even so. 

And yet we know — unless all knowledge is 
illusion— we know, anyhow, as well as we 
know that matter is indestructible, that energy 
persists, that fire burns, that light illuminates — 
we know that yonder sinner could no more 
help sinning, than yonder weather-vane can 


8o 


Two Voices . 


help pointing to the wind. We know that he 
could no more help doing what he did, than 
he could help being what he was ; that he 
could no more help his conduct than he could 
help his complexion. We know that he was 
not a free agent, had not a free will. We 
know that no such thing is conceivable in man 
as a free will ; that to assert a free will in man 
is to assert the most unthinkable of unthinka- 
ble things — is to assert an effect without a 
cause. Here, we know, is a fundamental law 
of all Existence : that the very fact of Exist- 
ence necessarily implies the possession of At- 
tributes, that is to say, of properties, of ten- 
dencies, of predispositions ; therefore, that, 
given a Thing, an Entity, an Existence, it, as 
the primary condition of its being, possesses 
certain given attributes, which, under given cir- 
cumstances, will assure its acting in a given 


De Profundis. 


81 


way, and not otherwise. That law, we know, 
is fundamental, primary, essential. It is the 
Law of Stability. All science depends upon 
it. Eliminate it from your equation of the 
Universe, and all science is dissipated ; Exist- 
ence is reduced to chaotic flux ; everything is 
at sixes and sevens. And that law, we know, 
is as true of Men as it is of Metals and of 
Microbes. 

We are not fatalists ; fatalism was a phase of 
superstition. But we are naturalists, we are 
statisticians ; we employ the scientific method ; 
we observe the phenomena of life, and the pos- 
sibilities of thought : therefore we are necessi- 
tarians. We own ourselves, one and all, help- 
less puppets in the hands of Necessity, — one 
and all, good and bad. The resultant of his he- 
redity and his environment, the sinner did only 
and exactly what, under the circumstances, he 


82 


Two Voices. 


had to do, — only and exactly what Necessity 
compelled him to do. Yet he must pay the 
penalty of it in this world ; and according to 
most theologies, he stands an excellent chance 
of being damned for it in the next, — he, who 
could no more help it than he could help the 
color of his hair; than the river can help flowing 
down hill; than the apple can help dropping to 
the ground ; he, who, obedient to a law of his 
being, to a law of all being, simply followed 
the line of least resistance. Nature made him 
what he was, a knave ; then Nature punished 
him for being what she had made him. Na- 
ture forced him to do what he did, a crime; 
then Nature turned around and whipped him 
for having done what she had herself exacted. 
Impulsively, thoughtlessly, beholding his afflic- 
tion, we applaud it, crying, “ Serve him right ! 
There, you see, he’s got his come-upms ! ” But 


De Profundis. 


83 


seriously, upon deliberation ? Quelling our 
impulse ? Has the wretch had justice ? Has 
he had fair play ? Let a man imitate nature : 
what shall we say of him ? The next pallet to 
mine — I write in a Hospital — is occupied by 
a patient whose malady is hysteria. He is ex- 
ceptionally sensitive to hypnotic influences ; 
and him the doctors, in the interests of sci- 
ence, frequently hypnotize. When they have 
got him well hypnotized, they can reckon 
upon his doing obediently whatsoever they 
command. He will laugh, cry, hop about on 
one leg, etc., etc., at the word of the physi- 
cian, docile as a raw recruit before the drill- 
sergeant. Now imagine that the doctor says, 
“Slap my face.” The patient will certainly 
slap his face. What then if the physician 
prosecute him for assault and battery? — 
Yet that puny hypnotic had better power to 


8 4 


Two Voices. 


resist his hypnotizer than you or I have to re- 
sist Nature. — Oh, yes ; I know. ; we have a sen- 
sation of will, even of free will : but what is it 
that goes to shape our will ? What is it that 
determines the form our will shall take at any 
given instant ? What but heredity and envi- 
ronment ? Past environment and present envi- 
ronment : my condition of will at this moment 
being the last result of a sequence of causes 
that reaches back into eternity. 

Let us suppose that I am born into this 
world heir to a bodily disease. Surely, it’s not 
my fault. Nobody will blame me for it. I 
couldn’t help it. Yet all the days of my life 
I must suffer for it. While you, my contempo- 
rary, you are born into this world heir to robust 
bodily health, which all the days of your life 
you shall enjoy. Is it to your credit ? Shall I 
praise you for it? Could you help it? Yet 


De Profundis. 


85 


here we are, you well and happy, I ill and 
wretched. Now the puzzle is, why did Nature 
create us thus unequal? Who will cite that 
case as an illustration of how just she is ? Or, 
if you like, I am born into this world heir to 
an infirmity of mind ; you, heir to whatever is 
most precious in the way of mental gifts. All 
the days of my life, throughout the struggle 
for existence, I shall suffer the consequences of 
my congenital inferiority, while you shall enjoy 
the consequences of your congenital advantage. 
Why did Nature create us thus unequal ? Will 
anybody cite that case as an instance of her jus- 
tice ? Or, finally, let us suppose, I am born into 
this world heir to a taint of the soul, to vicious 
instincts, evil predispositions; you, heir to a high 
conscience and a noble heart. All the days of 
my life, treading the path of the transgressor, 
I shall suffer the consequences of my sinful- 


86 


Two Voices. 


ness ; while you will be reaping the rewards of 
your virtue. Why did Nature create us thus 
unequal? Yet will not all men cite that case 
as an example of her intrinsic justice ? I am a 
liar, a thief, a ruffian, a bad lot, a specimen of 
total depravity — anything you like. You, who 
are all that is antipodal, you look askance upon 
me, cry fie upon me ; and when you behold me 
overtaken and overwhelmed by the results of 
my unrighteousness, you declare, “ Well, he 
got his deserts. He sowed the wind ; he is 
reaping the whirlwind. The fitness of things 
is fitly preserved.” I say, as justly cry fie 
upon the Ethiopian for his skin, the leopard 
for his spots. As justly cry fie upon me be- 
cause I am hump-backed, or imbecile, or con- 
sumptive. Did I make myself? Did I make 
my parents, or even choose them ? Did I 
make the world, which has provided for me 


De Profundis. 


87 


my environment ? As justly declare that I got 
my deserts, because, having inherited a cancer, 
I went down to my grave tortured by its 
malignant throes. I could not help sowing the 
wind ; yet see — I am reaping the whirlwind ! 
******* 

When I reflect upon my own experience, 
now so soon to culminate, I feel that I, so far 
from being blameworthy, — though, if my story 
were told, most people would have for me only 
scorn and condemnation, — I feel that, so far 
from being blameworthy, I am warranted in 
complaining of the treatment I have had at the 
hands of Nature. For many years I have 
smarted under my own scorn and condemna- 
tion quite as keenly as I could smart under 
another person’s ; now at last, when I come to 
think it all over, I see that I have wronged 
myself — I see that I have simply been one of 


88 


Two Voices. 


Nature’s victims, — a burnt sacrifice upon her 
altar. 

At the age of two-and-twenty, being what 
Nature had made me, acting as, under the cir- 
cumstances, / had to act, as Nature, that is, 
compelled me to act, — following, in a word, the 
line of least resistance, — I committed a shame- 
ful and most awful sin ; and thereby I wrought 
the ruin of my entire subsequent life. At the 
age of two-and-twenty — as irresponsible as my 
neighbor in his hypnotic trance — I committed 
a sin the miserable consequences of which I 
have been suffering ever since, and must con- 
tinue to suffer so long as memory lasts. Per- 
petually, since I woke up to a realizing sense 
of what I had done, and to a recognition of my 
hopeless inability ever to undo it, life for me 
has been pain, — a lingering moral sickness. So 
long as memory lasts, life cannot cease to be 


De Profundis. 


89 


pain for me. I know, the doctrine of Hell, of 
eternal punishment, has fallen into disrepute 
latterly; it has fallen into disrepute, though 
the truth of it would seem to be axiomatic. 
For if, beyond the grave, we preserve our indi- 
vidual identities at all, — if, in other words, we 
remember there what we did here, — Hell must 
needs be a reality for such as I, punishment 
must be coeval with remembrance. It is so 
easy to do evil, so hard to do good ; so easy to 
undo good, so hard to undo evil. And until 
we miserable sinners have undone the evil of 
our doing, how can we know peace, except in 
obliviousness, which is annihilation? Sin, so 
often likened to a double-edged sword, cutting 
deep into the hand of him who wields it ! The 
wound in my hand shall not heal, until I have 
healed the wound, obliterated the cicatrice, 
that I inflicted. Can that ever be accom- 


9 o 


Two Voices . 


plished? Can you ever put together again, 
making them whole and perfect as they were 
in the beginning, the fragments of the vase 
that you have shattered ? Can you rebuild out 
of its ashes the house that you have burned? 
Can you breathe the breath of life anew into the 
nostrils of that dead thing whose life you have 
taken? Terrible power, f more terrible^ impo- 
tence ! With one sweep of my arm I can deal 
death unto the living; but, though I give my 
life to the effort, I cannot reanimate so much 
as one hair upon the head of the dead. Until 
I can undo the evil I have done, until I can 
re-do the good I have undone, I shall know no 
peace, except in forgetfulness, which means 
annihilation. Presupposing eternal life, — that 
is, eternal memory, — eternal punishment is 
axiomatic. 

Now that I come to die, and review my life, 


De Profundis. 


91 


and compare it to other lives, — marking how 
it was maimed at the commencement of the 
race, and then sent limping on to the dread 
goal, — I insist I have good reason to complain. 
As I lie here in the valley of the shadow of 
death, upon the hard road of the transgressor — 
whence I can look up and watch you others, 
called my brothers, at work in the sunny vine- 
yard, harvesting the sweet fruits of your vir- 
tues, — I cannot help wondering by what right 
our lots have been so different, yours and mine. 
We were each of us as straws upon the current 
of Necessity. Why was I sucked into the whirl- 
pool of iniquity, why were you borne into the 
still waters of righteousness? We were chil- 
dren of the same mother. Why did we receive 
such unequal usage from her? She made me 
weak, she made you strong ; she made me bad, 
she made you good. She led me into tempta- 


92 


Two Voices. 


tion, she delivered you from evil. She sold me 
in slavery to Ahriman, she enlisted you under 
the bright banner of Ormuzd. She forced me 
to do ill, she forced you to do well. And 
then — lo ! she overwhelmed me with her dis- 
pleasure, upon you she lavished her loving 
kindness. Now at last, having done with me, 
she hands me over to the King of Terrors. 

How can you justify her ways to me? 

Shrieking, red in tooth and claw with ravine, 
reeking with uncleanness, she brings children 
from her bowels, diseased, deformed, depraved, 
and flings them to her beasts, to be devoured : 
while their luckier brothers stand by, eye- 
witnesses, and smile, approve, — yea, marvel, — 
at her unfaltering justice; Retributive Justice, 
Poetical Justice ! I, one of the unlucky, help- 
less, bound hand and foot, but not yet gagged, I 
may open my mouth and question if she is just. 


De Profundis. 


93 


At the age of two-and-twenty I was . . . 
Well, bad as I was, I was only what Nature, 
acting through heredity and environment, had 
made me. So, humanly speaking, so is a 
bacillus, a pestilence-germ, a bad thing ; but it 
is only what Nature has made it ; it can’t help 
being a pestilence-germ. No more could I 
help being what I was at the age of two-and- 
twenty. And I did . . . Well, bad as it was, 
I did only what Nature, acting through hered- 
ity and environment, compelled me to do. 
My moral attributes, like my intellectual at- 
tributes, were determined by the structure and 
the chemistry of my brain ; which, in turn, 
like my weight, like my stature, like the tex- 
ture of my skin, like the color of my eyes, had 
been determined by my heredity and my en- 
vironment. I was .born whether I would or 
not. I had no voice in the selection of my an- 


94 


Two Voices. 


cestry, none in the selection of the time, place, 
or circumstances of my birth, none in the 
selection of the place or the circumstances of 
my bringing up. Upon each of these counts 
I must be acquitted of responsibility. Shapen 
in wickedness and conceived in sin, I was4>orn. 
I was born into this world as a seed is planted 
in the earth. In me ten million rays of ances- 
tral life were focused. The seed was planted. 
Heredity handed me over to Environment. 
Heredity furnished the potentialities, the pre- 
dispositions. Environment began its work of 
developing them, and wrought steadfastly for 
two-and-twenty years. The result was — what 
I was. Now as to what I did : It was the sim- 
ple and inevitable consequence of the circum- 
stances of the moment operating upon the 
thing I was. Upon a different thing they 
would have operated differently. Upon that 


De Profundis. 


95 


thing they had to operate that way. Let the 
wind blow upon the sail of a wind-mill : can 
the sail help turning? Apply a spark to gun- 
powder: can the powder help burning? Cut 
my flesh with a knife: can I help bleeding? 
I, the thing I was, under the circumstances 
that were, could no more help acting as I did, 
than, under the circumstances that we have 
just assumed, the sail could help turning, the 
powder burning; than I could help bleeding if 
you cut my flesh with a knife. If I fell, it was 
because I could not help falling; yet I have 
been utterly cast down and forsaken. Why is 
light given to a man whose way is hid, and 
whom God hath hedged in ? I was not in 
safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet ; 
yet trouble came. Ah, if that day had per- 
ished wherein I was born, and the night in 
which it was said, there is a man-child con- 


9 6 


Two Voices. 


ceived ! Why died I not from the womb ? 
Why did I not give up the ghost when I came 
out of the belly? For now I should have lain 
still and been quiet ; I should have slept ; then 
had I been at rest. 

* * % * * * * 

What was it that I did ? 

I cannot see that that matters. I sinned. 
I cannot see that the peculiar form of my sin 
matters. Say I slew my brother, like Cain. 
Say I betrayed my Master for thirty pieces of 
silver, like Judas. Say I won a woman’s heart 
and broke it, like too many to enumerate. 
What is the difference ? The red stain of guilt 
is the important thing. The shape it happened 
to take, or the spot where it happened to fall, 
is of significance. 

However, no harm can come from telling 
the specific truth. I wooed a woman ; I won 


De Profundis. 


97 


her; and then I deserted her. I persuaded 
her to give over to my keeping the flower of 
her life. I took it, I wore it, I tore it, I threw 
it down and trampled it into the ground. 
When most her soul was filled and satisfied 
with faith in me, I showed her my cloven hoof, — 
the cloven hoof that I was born with, that 
heredity had entailed upon me. I pierced her 
heart with a sword I held ; but the sword, 
though I knew it not, was double-edged ; and 
presently, smitten with pain and faintness, I 
looked and saw the wound in my own hand. 

. . . Oh, gentle heart ! Sweet heart ! Could I 
but makej^r wound whole, remit the pangs 
I caused you, give back to you unchanged what 
was yours before I took it from you, — I should 
not care, though my wound ached and bled for- 
ever. CouTd I but put together again, making 
them one and perfect, as they were before my 


9 8 


Two Voices. 


fingers touched them, the petals of the rose 
that I have picked to pieces ! Could I but 
abrogate the laws of being, reverse the course 
of time, abolish past events, bring back the 
snows of yester-year, revive the dead ! That 
is the inexorable Fact which sits like an In- 
cubus upon my breast, goading and irking 
me to desperation, — the harm I have done is 
done and can never be undone ; the pain 
I made you suffer has been suffered, I 
can never neutralize nor alter that. Regret 
is as futile as it is ^inevitable, — regret that 
gnaws and gnaws, and yet is utterly, utterly 
in vain! “Could we be so now? Not if all 
beneath heaven’s pall lay dead but I and 
thou, could we be so now.” For when I 
awoke, it was to a realizing sense not only of 
how I had sinned, but also of what I had lost. 
Many waters cannot quench love. I awoke 


De Profandis. 


99 


to find that I still loved you, and hungered 
for you, and must starve without you — you, 
whose life happiness I had destroyed ; you, 
between whom and myself, I had dug a gulf 
as deep as death ; you, whom I had had, and 
wantonly flung away ! “ Life’s prize, grasped 

at, gained, and then let go ! ” I awoke to dree 
my weird, haunted daytime and night-time by 
the vision of your sweet face white and rigid in 
an anguish of my causing ; to carry with me 
thenceforth to the hour of my annihilation, like 
a coal of fire shut down in my bosom, a soul 
consumed by horror for what I had done, a 
heart distraught with longing for what I had 
forfeited. . . . And yet men have renounced 
the dogma of hell, and deny that punish- 
ment is ordained to be eternal. What is the 
thread that holds a human being’s identity 
together ? — what but Memory ? And what is 


IOO 


Two Voices . 


hell but the Memory of the evil you have done 
and can never more undo? 

Nessun maggior dolore 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria ? 

Nay ; there is one greater : in the hour when 
you are chastened and repentant, to recall the 
hour of your extreme baseness, and to recog- 
nize the indestructibility of the evil you have 
wrought, the persistence of the evil forces 
which you have set in motion. 

It is an old story. In fiction it has been 
played with till it is dust and ashes. In truth, 
it has happened to countless men and women 
in the past, and will happen to countless 
more in the future. But what manner of world 
is it in which it is possible for such things to 
happen? And why does it happen to one of 
us, and not to all of us? Why does it happen 
to this man so to sin ? and this woman so to be 


De Profundis . 


IOI 


sinned against, and not to those two others? 
Why did it happen to her and to me, and not 
to you ? Why were our lives overtaken by 
storm and darkness and destruction, and yours 
borne on prosperous breezes into the haven 
of pleasantness and peace? You know how 
precious your life is to you. My life was just 
as precious to me, her life was just as precious 
to her. Yet see — yours is saved to you and 
blessed ; ours were cut down like the grass 
and withered as the green herb. That is what 
I cannot understand, puzzle over it as I will. 
I cannot understand the system by which 
Nature allots her good and evil gifts. Is it 
chance ? fortuitous, blind chance ? Then what 
a world ! Is it design ? . . . . 

I have read in the books of certain compla- 
cent philosophers this affirmation : That Sin 
and Pain are admirable and indispensable iiisti- 


102 


Two Voices. 


tutions, in that they offer the resistance, the 
friction, necessary to the on-going of goodness 
and happiness. That is very nice for the good 
and the happy; but, it would seem, rather hard 
on the sinful and the painful. What manner 
of world is it in which she and I must be sac- 
rificed to Satan, that you and you may attain 
unto God ? in which I must work iniquity, and 
into smoke be consumed away, that you may 
depart from evil T do good, and dwell forever- 
more ? 

Another coterie of complacent philosophers 
object : “ Just a little too much is attributed 
to Necessity. It is ninety-seven per cent. 
Necessity, and three per cent. Will.” Happy 
those who can silence Truth with an epigram. 
Ninety-seven per cent, cause and effect ; three 
per cent, effect without cause! For my part, 
I cannot conceive of effect without cause. If 


De Profundis. 


103 


my three per cent, of Will determined me to 
act thus, something must have caused it thus 
to determine me. If my three per cent, of 
Will determined me to act so, something must 
have caused it so to determine me. Or, ignor- 
ing for one instant your fallacy, how came it to 
pass that your ninety-seven per cent, of Neces- 
sity inclined you to the right side, while my 
ninety-seven per cent, of Necessity inclined 
me to the left or sinister side ? Was that quite 
fair? Was it not ninety-seven plus ninety-sev- 
en, or one hundred and ninety-four per cent, 
easier for you to achieve virtue, than for me to 
achieve it? Was not my temptation toward 
vice one hundred and ninety-four per cent, 
stronger than yours ? Happy those who can 
mask Reality in a formula ! No ! Hideous as 
the visage of Reality may be, to tear the veil 
from it, and gaze squarely at it, affords an 


104 


Two Voices. 


inexplicable delight. Harsh as the voice of 
Truth maybe, there is no music known to man 
which affords such sublime exhilaration. If ye 
eat of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, you 
shall surely die ; but in the day ye eat thereof, 
then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall 
be as gods. 

***** * * 

Looking backward upon my lost and broken 
life, like water spilt on the ground, which can- 
not be gathered up again, I ask why ? Sinful, 
painful, futile, had it a reason or an excuse for 
being? Looking forward to the dread event 
now so near at hand, I ask what? Whither? 
Shall I remember there? If yes, Hell. If no, — 
is not forgetfulness equal to annihilation ? And 
if I am to be annihilated, why was I born ? 
Why is a thing begun that is to end thus ? Or 
may there be some other finality, not imagin- 


De Profundis. 105 

able by man, but sweet as the awakening from 
a bad dream ? 

* * * * * * * 

I lie here in the land of darkness and the 
shadow of death, my whole head sick, my whole 
heart faint, my punishment greater than I can 
bear ; I close my eyes, and am still for a little ; 
then a voice sounds in my ears, crying, The 
secret things belong unto the Lord our God. I 
close my eyes, and am still for a little ; and 
then there comes to me a beautiful strange feel- 
ing of serenity and lightness, and many years 
are as yesterday, and the far-away Sunday 
mornings of my childhood are present to me 
again. I see the sunlight pouring in through 
the eastern windows of the church, and the 
motes stirring and shining in it. I hear the 
organ rolling, the choir chanting, the words of 
the De Profundis going up : 


io 6 


Two Voices . 


Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O 
Lord ; Lord, hear my voice. Oh, let thine ears 
consider well the voice of my complaint. If 
thou, Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is 
done amiss, O Lord, who may abide it ! For 
there is mercy with thee ; therefore shalt thou 
be feared. I look for the Lord ; my soul doth 
wait for him ; in his word is my trust. My 
soul fleeth unto the Lord before the morning- 
watch, I say, before the morning-watch ! 


THE END. 


By the Author of Two Voices. 


THE YOKE OF THE THORAH. 


i Vol. i6mo, Extra Cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50 cents. 

“ The love-story of the young Jewish painter, Elias Bacharach, and the 
sweet American girl, Christine Redwood, is a beautiful city idyll ; and 
there is true and powerful tragedy, in the legitimate sense of the word, in 
the chapters which tell how the morbidly sensitive rather than weak 
nature of Elias came under the yoke, not of the Thorah, which for him 
had lost its sacredness, but of a stronger, calmer, and more persistent will 
than his own. . . . The Rabbi Gedaza is one of the most impressive 

figures in recent fiction ; and the pages which follow Elias’s confession to 
his uncle of his approaching marriage with a Gentile woman are rich in a 
quite remarkable intensity of imaginative realization.” — The London 
A cademy. 


GRAND1SON MATHER; 

Or, An Account of the For times of Air . and Airs. 
Thomas Gardiner. 

1 Vol. i2mo, Extra Cloth, $1.25. 


44 A thoroughly charming domestic love story, a grateful relief from the 
flamboyant, high-strung novels of uncertain tone that have been too long 
the fashion.” — Toledo Evening Bee. 

“ There is a wholesome sincerity and enthusiastic freshness about Mr. 
Harland ’s style which is very fetching.” — Portland Press. 

41 But few of the novelists who have come into prominence lately equal 
Sidney Luska’s happy faculty of uniting interest and pleasure in nar- 
rative.” — The Leader , Cleveland , Ohio. 


By the Author of Two Voices, 


AS IT WAS WRITTEN. 

A Jewish Musician’s Story, i Vol. i6mo, Extra 
Cloth, $1.00. Paper, 25 cents. 

“It ought to be read by all who enjoy the spell of the human imagina- 
tion.” — Springfield Republica n . 

“ The working out of so strange and abnormal a plot without any descent 
into mere grotesqueness is a triumph of art.” — N. V. Tribune. 

“ It cannot fail to impress itself as an able and moving dramatic effort.” 
— N. Y. Times. 

“ We have seen no book of late years to which the term absorbing in in- 
terest could more appropriately be applied.” — Boston Herald. 


MRS. PEIXADA. 


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A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

i Vol. i6mo, Extra Cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50 cents. 

“ By the delightful, tripping, careless nothings that belong to the talk 
of living youth, by a bonhomie that lets us share his enthusiasm, making 
us almost partakers of his inspiration, by a delicacy of touch that fairly 
eludes description, by the ideality of his realism, in fact by that ineffable 
quality of the French known as temperament, — Mr. Harland has in this 
story given us what we shall not soon forget.” — The Critic , New York. 







